Losers: Part I

The Mustang’s interior was pristine as I slid onto the leather passenger seat. It smelled like Manson inside — that distinctly dark, spiced chocolate scent I’d come to know as his.

“Any preference on music?” he said. He cranked the engine and the Mustang roared to life, the entire car trembling before it settled. Almost everything inside looked original, except for the speakers, radio, and the thick purple bars that extended around the interior like a cage. I recognized them as similar to the ones in Vincent’s car, and I wondered if Manson had cuffs dangling from his too.

“Surprise me,” I said, watching as he flicked through a playlist on his phone while the car idled. He picked a song and adjusted the volume, a hauntingly ethereal voice coming from the speakers.

“I have to let the car warm up before we leave,” he said. “It’ll be a few minutes.”

We sat in silence, the engine quieting slightly as we waited. I was so tired; my muscles were weak with exhaustion. But the clothing Jason had put me in was warm and cozy, swaddling me in his scent.

Part of me didn’t want to leave. Up in Jason’s bedroom, I’d been tempted to collapse back into bed, pull Jason and Manson close and demand Lucas snuggle up too. Lying there with them had felt so comfortable, so normal. Like I was meant to be there.

I cleared my throat, unable to bear the silence any longer. “When did you get the Mustang?”

“About a year ago,” he said. “She’d been sitting on someone’s property for years and needed a lot of work.” He glanced over at me. “But she was worth the effort.”

“She’s beautiful,” I said. He looked down and away, but not quick enough to hide his smile. I didn’t know shit about cars, but I knew a nice one when I saw it. “Does she have a name?”

“Name?” His brow furrowed for a moment. “No, I…I’ve never been into naming inanimate objects. It’s not good to get attached to possessions.”

He put the car into gear, backing out of the garage. He pulled out of the yard onto the dirt road, parking for a moment while he closed and locked the gate. We bumped slowly along the dirt before we turned onto Route 15, the engine growling aggressively as Manson picked up speed.

The streetlights flashed overhead as I watched him out of the corner of my eye, trying not to make it obvious. The muscles in his arm were taut as he moved the gearshift, eyes focused on the road.

“Do you wanna see how fast she can go?” he said, his expression turned mischievous.

I pulled my seatbelt tighter, bracing myself. “Oh, hell yes.”

He accelerated, the force of it pressing me back into my seat. The engine roared so loud it drowned out my laughter as he sped down the road. The wind whipped through the open windows, and we passed the turn for my house in the blink of an eye. Our speed reached 90…100…110. I braced my hands against the metal bars encircling the cab, my heart in my throat as we flew down the open road.

“Holy shit, Manson!” I shrieked as he downshifted, wrenching the wheel as the tires squealed. The back end of the car slid out in a half-circle before he straightened out, our speed climbing again as he took the narrow twisting road that led up into the hills behind the gated community of Wickeston Heights.

He was smiling wide as he whipped through the road’s curves. It was no wonder he’d fallen in love with this: the speed, the power, the freedom. He brought us to the crest of the hill and pulled off to the side, the tires crackling in the dirt. There was a lookout here with a view of the town, and he parked right next to the large boulders guarding the edge of the hillside.

“You know, coming up to the lookout with someone usually means you’re trying to get lucky,” I said. People had been coming up here for years with the sole intent to have sex, hotbox their vehicles, drink, or generally be degenerates.

“I think having you in my car at all is pretty lucky,” he said. The sincerity of his words caught me off guard, and I shifted in my seat, staring at the distant lights. This feeling was almost sad, but too full of desire to be melancholy.

Was I just tired and overthinking? There was something about the way he was looking at me that made me feel like I couldn’t get enough air despite the open windows. I wasn’t supposed to feel like this. This soft vulnerability. This need that had nothing to do with sex. This was only supposed to be about sex, nothing more.

Why did it feel like there was more?

He spoke before I could. “Let’s go see the view.”

We got out and joined each other at the front of the car. He leaned against the hood, hands inside the pockets of his hoodie as he looked out at the twinkling lights below. I leaned beside him, the metal warm through Jason’s oversized pants. Wickeston looked a lot prettier from up here — all glittering lights spread out in the darkness. The breeze picked up and made me shiver a bit, and I glanced over as Manson unzipped his jacket.

“Here, you must be cold,” he said, ushering me closer. He pulled me to his chest, and I leaned against the hood between his legs as he pulled the jacket around both of us. His chin rested on my shoulder, his hands finding mine beneath the jacket.

He pressed lightly on the pad of my middle finger, and I said, “The heart healed. No scar.”

“You sound disappointed,” he said.

“I guess I hoped it would scar,” I admitted. “I liked looking at it. It made me feel like…I don’t know.” I shrugged sheepishly. “It made me feel like maybe I’d been forgiven. At least before I went and fucked things up again.”

It wasn’t easy to admit; I hated to say I was wrong. People would take advantage of that. If you gave them even an inch, one single moment of weakness, they’d find a way to wield it over you. Pride kept me safe. It was a barrier I’d thought no one could breach.

Oh, how incorrect I’d been.

“I know that probably sounds really hypocritical of me,” I said, as his silence drew out. I needed him to say something, anything. It felt like such a silly thing to admit that a little cut on my finger made me feel so much. If I’d tried to tell that to anyone else in my life, they would have laughed or been disgusted, horrified, maybe even concerned.

“I think we’re all hypocrites, in one way or another,” he said, and his arms tightened around me. “As we grow up and figure out who we are, sometimes our thoughts change before our behavior does. It’s not pretty, and it can be fucked up, but we’re not perfect. We’ve all done it.”

“Yeah?” My voice sounded far more timid than I wanted. “You’ve done it too?”

“I…well, fuck…” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Once I met this girl, and I thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. But I wasn’t good enough for her, you know…I was a mess and didn’t know how to talk to anyone. I was always in my own head just trying to get through another day.”

I swallowed hard, thankful for the jacket’s warmth. I knew this story and it wasn’t easy to hear, but I needed to.

“I think I should have hated that girl,” he said, but he didn’t sound hateful at all. “Because she was always with the same people who hurt me, and she stood for everything I didn’t. Perfection, popularity, beauty…she was part of the system that rejected me. She was what we all were supposed to aspire to be, or to have.” He turned his head, so his cheek rested on my shoulder and he was facing away from me. “But I didn’t hate her, Jess. Never. Not even once. I don’t think I could, even if I tried, even if I wanted to.”

There were parts of myself that only existed because people wanted them, parts of me designed entirely to please people who didn’t even care in the end. I’d thought it would be easier that way, but it didn’t feel easy at all. It felt like I’d ripped myself in two pieces and couldn’t make any of the edges match up again.

“You should probably hate her,” I said. “Because it sounds like she deserves it.”

“Nah, that’s not true.” He kissed my neck, making me smile despite myself. “I’m not good at hating people, Jess. Hate is too heavy, it’s too much. I’d rather find the good in people, when I can. I’d rather give some grace to others who are figuring it all out, because I’m trying to do the same thing.”

“Do you ever feel like you’re running out of time? I know we’re young, but sometimes I feel like life is rushing by me so much faster that I can’t keep up with it. Like I missed a lesson everyone else already figured out, or like I’m starting over…”

“I get it.” He lifted his head from my shoulder, smoothing my hair back from my face even though the breeze whipped it right back again. “Seeing you in Wickeston again was like seeing you come back from the dead. I thought you were done with this place.”

“I thought so too,” I said. “Things didn’t exactly go according to plan. I made the mistake of thinking I’d land a big career straight out of college, as if money, a house, and a job would all fall into my lap.” I rolled my eyes at myself, at my own naivety. “Now my mom gets to rub it in my face that college was a terrible choice after all.” I put on my best imitation of my mother’s disapproving drawl as I said, “I should have been looking for a husband all this time instead. How will she ever see any grandbabies if I’m too busy chasing a job?”

Manson shook his head. “I’ve never met your mom, but I have a feeling I know where you get your stubbornness from.”

I looked over my shoulder at him, narrowing my eyes. “Oh, you have no idea. That woman could argue with a brick wall and win.”

We both laughed — a moment passing in comfortable silence.

“You’re trying to get to New York,” Manson finally said. “You want to live in the city?”

“I think it would be exciting to live downtown,” I said. “I used to think that all I wanted was a cute little apartment in Manhattan. But…maybe not. Maybe living outside the city would be nice. Close enough to visit when I want, but still far enough away that there’s some peace and quiet.” I sighed. “I’m still undecided on so much. All I know is that I want to get the hell out of this town and go where no one knows my name.”

“You want to escape who you were,” he said.

“I’ve fucked up a lot of things. I drove people away. I was selfish.” I was glad my back was to him, because I didn’t think I could meet his eyes. “I was awful toward you. I treated you all like shit.”

“Why did you do it?” His voice was soft, gentle. My eyes began to sting, surprising me, and I hurriedly coughed to make the tears go away.

I’d asked myself that same question many times and I still didn’t feel like I had a good answer.

“I couldn’t stay away from you,” I finally said. “It seemed like you didn’t care what anybody thought, and that…it irritated me. It made me mad that I didn’t feel that way, that I cared too much. I couldn’t stand how I had everything I was supposed to want, except…”

“Except?” he coaxed me. I turned to face him, and his arms adjusted to accommodate me.

“Except I wasn’t happy,” I said. “Everyone kept telling me I was supposed to be, so I kept pretending that I was. I thought eventually it would click, that I would feel okay. But the harder I tried to pretend, the worse I felt. I hated who I was, but I didn’t know how to be anyone else. I thought a few years in college would turn it all around. I made so many friends, I drank way too much. I said yes to everyone because I thought maybe it would make me a better person, but it…it didn’t work.” I sighed, my shoulders feeling so heavy. “All those friends? They don’t call. They don’t care. Just like the friends I had here, they only want me if I’m Jess the Party Girl, or Jess the Stuck-Up Bitch. Even now…I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.”

That was the truth, as messy, ugly, and hypocritical as it was. I tried not to meet his eyes as I said it, afraid of what I’d find there. It made me feel pathetic, and not in that fun, sexy way like when I was begging them for more. In a gross, weak, shameful way.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Any of you. But I know I really messed up so many times.”

He clicked his tongue, nudging my chin up until I met his eyes. I braced myself for judgment but didn’t find any on his face.

“I can’t forgive on behalf of anyone else,” he said. “But I forgave you back then. I’ve forgiven you every day since. I’ll always forgive you. And if you talk to the boys like you just talked to me, I know they’ll forgive you too.”

It made me feel like crying. I held it back, swallowing hard and inhaling sharply. I was certain I didn’t deserve forgiveness like that. That was part of why I wanted so desperately to leave. I’d burned too many bridges, hurt too many people.

But maybe I hadn’t destroyed everything. Maybe there was still something good to be found here.

“What are you smiling for?” I said, a tremble in my voice as I looked at him.

He didn’t respond with words. His answer was his lips pressed against mine.

He cupped his hand around the back of my head, holding me close. His tongue probed my lips and they parted for him easily, our breath mingling as I knotted my hands into his shirt. I wanted to pull him closer, hold him impossibly tighter. As if I could live in this moment, this feeling, forever.

By the time we pulled up in front of my house, I knew I didn’t want to spend the night alone. Manson walked me to the door, but as I unlocked it, I turned to him and said, “Will you stay?”

His face was in shadow, but I still saw his eyes widen. He hesitated as I stood there, the door halfway open, the cool air seeping out from inside.

“You want me to…?” he said. “To sleep here?”

“Yes. I do.” I wasn’t used to being the one to ask, opening myself up for rejection. I wouldn’t blame him if he said no. He’d be right to keep his distance.

But he took my hand. “Yeah. Of course I’ll stay.”

It was like I was a teenager again, sneaking a boy into my house when my parents weren’t home. I didn’t want to imagine how pissed off my mother would be if she ever found out about this, but she wouldn’t. What she didn’t know couldn’t anger her.

He let me lead him upstairs, quiet as he looked around. When we reached the hallway on the second floor, he paused, staring up at the wall. My mom’s numerous framed photos smiled down at us, chronicling my life from infancy until now. The majority of the pictures were from beauty pageants, including glamor shots spanning throughout the first twelve years of my life.

“Yeah, I was one of those kids,” I said, as he inspected them. The photos looked silly; I’d been as young as two for some of those pageants, dressed in sequins and glitter with a full face of makeup. Perfectly straight false teeth hid the gaps left by losing my baby teeth, and poofy wigs covered my soft wispy hair. I’d been a toddler, wearing dangling earrings and lipstick, smiling big and bright.

Manson looked at the photos one by one, and I wished I could see into his brain. I wanted to know what he was thinking when he lingered over the family portraits or traced his finger along the frames.

“Did you enjoy it?” he said, his question catching me off guard. “The pageants?”

No one, not even my mom, had ever asked me that. I wasn’t even sure how to answer.

“It made my mom happy,” I finally said. “She thought it taught me social skills, and she was right. I was never afraid to be in front of a crowd, even when I was really little.”

I’d learned to drown out my nerves with floods of false confidence, to look at every other little girl I encountered as a challenge. I learned to always strive to be the best, to harden my emotions, to view the world as my stage. I’d even had a coach. I could still remember her and my mom making me walk back and forth as I hit all my “points” as I would have to in competition.

“Pretty feet, Jessica, remember? Pretty feet!”

“Give them a nice big smile, come on, nice pretty smile!”

“Don’t clench your fingers like that. Let the judges see pretty hands!”

Be pretty so you’ll win. Be pretty so they’ll like you.

“That’s not what I asked.”

His tone wasn’t demanding, but my first instinct was to lie. Of course I enjoyed it! Why wouldn’t I like dressing up nice, getting attention, feeling like I was the prettiest little girl in the world? What else could I have wanted than to make my mom proud, to have others look at me in envy, to feel like I was the best?

“When I won, I enjoyed it,” I said. “But there was only one winner. And sometimes…many times…that wasn’t me.”

Someone else was prettier, smarter, more graceful, more skilled. It hurt to lose, but it also pushed me to win. To try harder, to perform better. No matter what it took, no matter how many times I won first place, it was never enough. The competition didn’t end once the sequins came off and the glitter was washed away.

Manson stepped closer. Before I even realized what was happening, he’d scooped me up, my feet leaving the ground as he easily carried me the rest of the way down the hall.

“What are you doing?” I said, as he shoved open my bedroom door with his foot.

“Getting that sad look off your face,” he said, smiling at me crookedly as he stopped next to my bed. He dumped me on the mattress but followed me down, crawling on top of me. He buried his face against my neck, the combination of his mouth and warm breath trailing over my skin making me erupt in a fit of laughter.

“Fuck, no, no, no, I’m too ticklish there!” But he already knew my weakness, as he swooped in right for that sensitive spot behind my ear. I shrieked and struggled as he easily held me down, laughing at my helpless thrashing.

“That’s better,” he said, flopping down on the pillows, and I finally had a chance to catch my breath. We lay there, side by side, staring at the ceiling as our gasps slowed. When I sighed, still shivering with leftover giggles, I turned my face toward him.

He was staring back.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “How other people look couldn’t ever change that.”

I smiled, then stared at the ceiling as if that would hide how deeply I was blushing. Plenty of people called me beautiful — but it was different when he said it.

We stripped off our clothes until I was wearing only panties and Jason’s t-shirt, and he was in nothing more than black briefs. I pulled him onto the bed and my hands roamed over him slowly, exploring him in a way I’d never allowed myself to do before. I followed the lines of his tattoos, finding scars and freckles in the moonlight streaming in my window. He let me do it, lying there with his arms folded beneath his head as I touched him.

We shifted around, finally settling as he pulled me close, with my back to his chest. His arm wrapped around my waist, heavy but not clinging, like a weighted blanket that immediately relaxed me.

“Are you comfortable?” he said. His mouth was so close against my neck, and he was so warm.

“Yeah. Really comfortable.”

His steady breathing lulled me into a dreamless sleep within minutes.